A Longhouse Birdhouse

Sunday, December 17, 2017

NEW RONALD BAATZ AT LONGHOUSE ~

For all of you free-loaders waiting for a free reading of the

Longhouse foldout booklet of Ronald Baatz's long poem

— well, here it is! You knew I couldn't resist sharing

and it's such a beauty by Ronald

Those wishing to purchase a copy

can write here directly,

we're always home

Next up — a long poem foldout booklet

by George Evans

And after that — a booklet of poems

by Salvatore Quasimodo

translated by Julia Older

Forget what the news says

this is the news

and it's grand

I W O U L D D I E F O R
———————————————————

I would die for a music man of unwavering desire playing

the marimba on a steamy night in Chili after a woman of

beguiling shiny red smile had turned me into a frog the

smell of wild snow the dog under the bed the birth of

a star keeping a monkey awake.

I would die for endless drizzle for two flies sharing the

same headache for all of the world's unfinished memoirs

the waiter bringing a neon frog a drink in a cafe open all night

the natives frying snakes in the kitchen the piranha

stopping in to ask directions to the nearest racetrack

because it's hungry for horses.

I would die for the seductiveness of costume jewelry on

huge sailing ships and champagne showgirls telling me

my life is the blissful consequence of illusions brought on

by the sun's extravagant fire storms being too close and

the moon acting like a dreamy-eyed punk fool over rows

and rows of vacationing palm trees.

I would die for the wash still hanging on the line which

a woman of laziness and raging desires gives no thought

as rain clouds take comfort in settling over the vast greenness

of field her feet are running through high spidery-swaying

grasses as she flees from an overabundance of playful boys

that summer brings to life with one easy snap of the fingers.

I would die for the lover's most special harvest in darkness

the eyes' most beautiful bright skies the willowy hand moving

fingers through my beard as my senses partake of the verities of

small pink thornless roses climbing the fences of a hot mid-summer

afternoon as it pauses in the garden of our o so eager and o so

very alterable moods.

I would die for candles of endearing conversations and thoughts that

go plop causing deep booming echoes through universes imparting

a meaningful holiness to the fly in the window looking at the wind

at birds that are remembering faraway trees the lovely shock of

pears colliding with the earth or the smile of death that is just like

the smile of a goat.

I would die for the ghosts of sparrows singing songs in fog that

are just as quiet as fog the prowling solitude of a cat's collapsed stomach

the dew whispering on mud pies the cricket wishing farewell to summer

the pumpkin rotting in frosty-dark sweetness the snowman choking

on carrot fun the crazy indecipherable drunken talk of the prophet.

I would die for the lizard turning the sun into a pool of turquoise

the ping pong game enchanting the mourning dove the long-distance

runner writing a novel in his head the tender blossomings of moons

more than willing to be intimate with strangers the plums washed

in clear images of peace bringing the world to a soothing standstill.

I would die for the sunrise lodged in a flea the worms singing in the

open mouth of sunset the cute optimism of hummingbirds the

new monks walking the streets with uncracked begging bowls the

doe acknowledging the falling leaf the philosopher washing his face

while swatting the tiny buzzing mysteries of time.

I would die for the floating doughnut the robustness of coffee black

the softness of yellow silk covering a breakfast table the imperfect

but playful weather of a baby god the delicate chattering of birds in

a neighborhood blessed with the chimerical calm of foggy annihilation

the boundless everyday life clinging to a moth.

I would die for the kisses of grandmother's big wet sloppy lips

the scratches found in grandfather's footprints as though he were

being followed by a chicken the remarkable openness of rain

falling in the birdbath and nowhere else the bear hug of

the sailor who smells from China the scented beliefs of lilacs.

I would die for underground culture the unknown mushroom the

meatball on fire the sensuously gluey fish the size of grains of rice

swimming in memory the working dogs the sporting dogs the toy dogs

the herding dogs the confident hounds the ridiculous terriers that

refuse even to admit they have a dog's life or that they'd gladly eat a

birthday cake and all its bones at the drop of a hat.

I would die for the maple the birch the black oak the mountain gum

the white ash the sycamore the silver linden the weeping willow the

silverbell the hackberry the peach tree that the children play under

the dog barking at the tree it is tied to the tree's licking the dark

with its leaves the sun in red ants the moon in black ants the stars

in the lake the stars damp as the tea leaves we need to believe.

I would die for the waterfall smelling good from fresh cloudbursts the

barn swallow darting from sheer and grandiose and commanding

nothingness to more of such nothingness the great horned owl washing

its eyeballs in lemon juice the lightning that without fail purifies

every Wednesday evening and causes ashes of indifference to fall on

sweet fields of corn.

I would die for the compassion of saints the mountains of struggling souls

the defiant child making a wrinkled face as summer ends its life on a note

firm as baby fat the singing of lovers on the sprouting plateaus of crispy

hearts the old raving fool inhaling the breath of ants that are like

the tiniest of enthusiastic tourists gazing at stars.

I would die for dandelion wine dizzily fermenting in the basement

the fig seed on a napkin the voices in the trees the drop of ink in mist

the smashed watermelon the happiness of tomorrows crossing the

river on a dead leaf the old saying that says mud chokes no eels

the drunken laughter of poets free from the constraints of

the mind's lonely prison.

Saturday, December 16, 2017

SYLVIA PLATH ~

USA edition ( Harper ) U.K. edition ( Faber )

An astonishing collection — which will become her ultimate autobiography when the second volume is released to the world — this first volume of over 1300 pages brings us to Sylvia Plath, age 24.

R E V I E W

Sylvia Plath with typewriter in Yorkshire, September 1956

Photograph: Elinor Friedman Klein/Mortimer Rare Book Room, Smith College, Northampton, Massachusetts

Friday, December 15, 2017

I Know A Day Will Come

I know a day will come

when those I know and don't know

will enter my room

to collect my remains

and wash the darkened blood stains I've shed across the floor

rearrange the upturned able and chairs

toss out the moldering garbage

take in the clothing from the balcony

someone will help me write the poem I didn't have time to finish

someone will help me read the book I didn't have time to finish

someone will help me light the candle I didn't have time to light

last will be the curtains that haven't been opened for years

someone will help me open them, and let the sunlight in for a while

they will be closed again, and nailed there deathly tight

the whole process will be orderly and solemn

when everything is tidy

they will all line up to leave

and help me quietly shut the door

——————————————

from "Six Poems of Labor & Desperation"
translated from the Chinese by Eleanor Goodman

XU LIZHI (1990-2014)

Thursday, December 14, 2017

THOMAS MANN ~

Susan Walsh/Associated Press

—————————————————————

The past half century has witnessed a retrogression of humanity, a chilling atrophy of culture, a frightening decrease in civility, decency, sense of justice, loyalty and faith and of the most elementary trustworthiness. Two world wars, breeding brutality and rapacity, have catastrophically lowered the intellectual and moral level (the two are inseparable) and left behind a state of disorder which is a poor safeguard against the plunge into a third world war which would end everything."

T H O M A S M A N N

—————————————————————

AMERICAN EARTH ~

Mr. McKibben teaches at Middlebury College

but not one Vermont author is included in

these 1047 pages —

no Frost no Hoagland no Carruth
no Budbill no Kinnell

the Green Mountain State

Wednesday, December 13, 2017

URSULA LE GUIN ~

URSULA K. LE GUIN

Finding Jose Saramago's extraordinary blog (started up, like

Le Guin, in his eighties) was a revelation to the science fiction writer

and poet, so she has begun one of her own, and some portions have made

its way into this new collection. As always with Le Guin, everything

is interesting where she touches down with her eye and writing. One

reviewer of the book described the author's move to a blog as "narrowing" her

perspective. "Narrowing" is impossible when it comes to Ursula Le Guin.

She's been to the universe. She expands. Yes, even when she spends

home time with her cat, Pard. A good name.

Houghton Mifflin

2017

Tuesday, December 12, 2017

SPY OF THE FIRST PERSON ~

Yes, the new Shepard book is quite good, he has refined the writing

or his poor health has done it for him.

No more time to diddle around.

He’s more like Issa here.

He goes back and forth in almost a dreamscape between himself (the injured)

and watching himself from a short distance

plus it seems memory of an earlier life and love

and her awful sickness and early death.

The ending is strong and clear-sighted and tragic.

He ends with his dignity.

I was in two fine bookshops yesterday, neither had the book,

but perhaps both shops have already sold out.

Knopf 2017

prose

Monday, December 11, 2017

LOVE AND LANDSCAPE ~

Love And Landscape

Don’t ask us how we crossed the saltwater marsh

Grasses were high and easy under foot

The last stream was spanned by a driftwood plank

Thrown carefully into the muck

I didn’t sink and you didn’t sink

And when we came to ocean

Skittering of sandpipers

You held your dress and walked into the spray

It must have been also the sudden daylight that I loved

Between Ives and Messiaen you move and I move with you. In one more stupid mall with cheap price CDs and three hundred Sunday shoppers all with the same behavioral instincts, what’s to look at? The ceiling is more curious, all suspended with some panels complete, some open straight up to the no man’s land of steel trusses and cheapness. I know when it rains it rains in the book section, and wouldn’t you know? A leak in the roof still to be found. Before we leave with our fix of CDs Carson wants to take me back into the book section to show me where he sits each time we come right in front of a rack of comic books and he often brings real books to this chair. Now I know where to find him. I remind him this is the best way to use this place — read for hours on a rainy day respectful of the merchandise but don’t buy a thing. How I move with you is standing still, not even thinking of much; will it be a CD Ives or Messiaen juggling prices, and in green cotton dress between racks you hesitate in its alphabetical organization, tight waist and hips curve, a freshly and very fuckable look between us.

Neighborly

During the big snowstorm

that lasted almost a full week

three feet of snow and plenty of

kerosene lamps used

two horses broke loose from

somewhere, though we have a

good idea where, but first Sweet-

heart had to be surprised by the

two at the door as she turned

and how she couldn’t help but

see how one was bleeding at the

eye and the other seemingly wasted

so she took them back through the

deep snow to the road where all

things, even those you can’t afford

to love, come and go

The Reflex

One must understand

I hug my love every day

as the world gets worse

and worse and worse

I hug her many times

in a day

I smell her hair, feel

her waist, and even

look out a window

but I hug her

————————————

BOB ARNOLD

I'm In Love With You

Who Is In Love With Me

Longhouse 2012

Sunday, December 10, 2017

THE SUN ESSENTIALS ~

EVIL CHASING WAY ~

Set against the night country of New Mexico is a mystery that has never been solved. The novel follows the footsteps of a young reporter who has been assigned to witness a series of bizarre cattle mutilations. In his search for truth, he interviews tribal elders, scientists, FBI agents, state police, mediums, mystics, cattle and horse ranchers, and many other observers living in the high desert of northern New Mexico. One of his interviewees is a scientist who claims to have been taken aboard a “star car”. A Navajo medicine man confirms that he was abducted as well. A tribal friend tells the author: “There is a hole in the sky and things are coming out of it.” PRAISE FOR GERALD HAUSMAN “If you’re hungry for a book to keep you up past bedtime—with all the lights on—this tale is for you. Based on real unsolved mysteries, Evil Chasing Way deals with startling animal deaths that some attribute to aliens, skinwalkers, secret government research or a force of true evil. This is New Mexico’s own X File anchored in Hausman’s elegant prose and finely tuned descriptions of the Southwestern landscape.” —Anne Hillerman, author of Song of the Lion "Evil Chasing Way is something special. Part mystery, part magical realism, part personal journey, and very much mystical, I was irresistibly drawn into the story. I was captivated by the narrator, an inquisitive journalist seeking answers to the mysterious and often grotesque cattle and horse mutilations that once plagued southern Colorado and much of New Mexico. Experts raced from incident to incent, but credible explanations were few and far between. What happens when reality defies known science and rationality? That’s where Gerald Hausman begins. Then he draws deep from his well of knowledge of Navajo story and culture. (Think Tony Hillerman on steroids.) He takes you on a journey from the arroyos and high forests of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains to the craggy stone crevasses of the Grand Canyon. Along the way you meet shuffling skin walkers, extraterrestrials, and crafty coyotes. This is more than a novel. It’s an experience you won’t forget and it will leave you hungry for more."

—Peter Eichstaedt, author of Borderlands and The Dangerous Divide

Speaking Volumes

18 Sleeping Dog Road

Santa Fe, New Mexico

87508